#and i even told her ‘hey be aware that there’s a lot of non-verbal communication and other stuff that you’ll miss if you’re only listening’ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

taikanyohou · 3 years

Note

Hey faiza I hope you dont mind sharing, but if you do you can ignore this ask, I wouldnt mind.

I have a younger sister who's recently diagnosed with autistism and I've tried to do research regarding it but I still feel helpless and that somehow I'll mess up. She's still growing and I want her to call home a safe place cause she has trouble with the outside world since there isnt a lot of awareness about autism here. Can you please guide me a bit? How you guys handle stuff at home? Any reading material that helped you. Thank you

hiiii anon!!! that's fine! honestly it was hard. bc my brother is the only boy from us all, and we're 4 siblings. there's me as the eldest, then my sister, then my brother and then my youngest sister. so at first, my parents just thought that bc was my brother was the only boy, that he might be developing a lot slower than me and my sister did as girls, but that eventually at the age of 2 or 3, he'd catch up. he didnt.

and my mum was the first one to sorta catch on that something didnt feel right. so after the health visitor inspected my brother and he got assessed, my brother got diagnosed with autism at the age of 3. my dad was a little reluctant at first to accept it, bc no one in my family history (either from my mum or dad's side) have autism or any type of special educational needs or disabilities, so my parents didnt really Know how to handle this all. but then my dad, after some time, came round.

and its not easy at all. it still isnt even though he's 23 now. but we've had a lot of support from different professionals, who are a whole team that have stuck with my brother at various points in his life, like his speech and language therapist or his educational psychologist or his medical staff or his teachers or his social worker etc. so they've always supported us and given us guidance and sent my parents to various courses - like triple p, something i hiiiiiiighly recommend. as a teacher, i also look into team teach, but i'd recommend even that too tbh, as a way to help and learn about de-escalation, and how you can positively help your sister in her education and broader sense of learning. another thing we also use is PECS - its honestly v v v useful for most children with autism as it helps them visualise their routine/timetable for the day/planned activities, but it also helps in allowing them to express what or how they feel, like hunger or fatigue, and helps them communicate their needs to you, if you help them understand what the visual cards represent.

for my brother, we've always had him have his own bedroom, and thats his private space to cool off and calm down that we rarely go in. my brother's non verbal, so he really has struggled with communication. we know a bit of BSL (sign language) and that helped when he was a kid, but as he grew, his school and his teachers slowly got him to begin speaking. he now only speaks in 3 or 4 word strings, not full sentences, but its a huge development!

my brother's really into disney, so he has a collection of disney books and films in his bedroom. what i'm saying is that get the time to explore what your sister's interests and hobbies are, and make her safe space one that holds her interests to help her feel secure. my brother isnt very into sensory textured things, so food isn't a huge issue with him, but for your sister, explore what textures she likes and what she doesnt. we dont ever force my brother into something he doesnt want to do, and sometimes that can mean cancelling plans last minute as a whole family too, which can be quite upsetting. so sometimes what helps is telling my brother well in advance that we're planning to do xyz on such a day, so that on that day, he isnt overcome with anxiety, bc most children with autism need a set routine, and if that gets disrupted, then they will behave anxiously. so now, when we have to go to a wedding or go out to eat, we tell my brother a week or so in advance, and he's okay with that.

but also, build some independence and decision making in them! let them choose what clothes they want to wear, what food they want to eat, whether they want to do english or maths today etc. sometimes things can become overwhelming and they do hit or bite or pinch or throw things. thats the moment where you just say a firm No and step away. let them cool off, and that will give you a chance to cool off too.

and always make sure YOU are okay too. if it gets too much, speak to your family. make sure different people are with your sister, because it can be physically difficult and mentally emotional. if you want to rest one day and have that day for yourself, tell someone in your family in advance and have some me time, and that will give a different family member a chance to spend time with your sister. that will help your sister build more relationships too! some days, my brother doesnt even wanna see my face, and thats ok! he spends that day with my other sisters or my parents or he'll go out with my cousin or sometimes, just by himself, bc they need that too.

and if you just tell someone, if you are going out somewhere, that you have a family member that has autism, you'll be surprised with how accommodating people are, and that helps so so much as opposed to not telling and then you'll get stressed and anxious too. like, sometimes, crowds and big spaces stress my brother out, even now, for example at a wedding we recently went to. but we told the person who invited us about my brother, and they said its absolutely no problem whatsoever if my brother needs to step out for a bit to get some fresh air or if he needs to be fed first etc. and in the same vein, i'd say to keep your conversations with you and your sister's "team" (her school teachers etc) ongoing, so that everyone is on the same page. for example, if you were to go on holiday or implement a new habit or try something new with your sister, if your sister's whole "team" knows about this, then you are all on the same page, and will help build that new change for your sister.

its honestly a learning experience that will never end, if i were to be honest. and some days its so .... hard. and other days its the most heartwarming thing you'll ever experience. make sure you take care of yourself, including speaking to someone if gets too much, so you can take care of your sister. and soon enough you yourself with just ... develop a sixth sense for who and what your sister wants or doesnt want and who or what she does or doesnt need.

🧡

#faiza answers #sorry this is super long but i hope it helps! 🧡

7 notes · View notes

tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

Text

Out Patience

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Alan, Scott, Virgil

There are three Tracys in the hospital and only one of them should be out of bed.

Kicking off @badthingshappenbingo with the square “The Patient Has Left The Building” - with Alan (as requested by @ak47stylegirl) and Virgil (as requested by @louthestarspeaker). I’m still taking requests for non-Scott TAG characters for the other squares!

Alan loved his big brothers, he really did, but there were times when he wished he wasn’t the youngest – if only so they took him seriously.

Okay, so that wasn’t strictly true. They did take him seriously most of the time, mainly when they were on a mission and he’d had an idea, or spotted something just before everything went to hell, but take them out of the field and it was back to “go back to your lessons, Alan.” Just because they meant well and cared about his schooling (more than he did at times; who cared about grades when he already had his dream job?) didn’t mean it wasn’t utterly infuriating to go from valued member of the team to baby brother in the blink of an eye.

He hadn’t been told to ‘go back to your lessons’ this time, but he had been told ‘everything is fine, Alan, don’t worry’, as though that was supposed to miraculously stop him from worrying. What his beloved yet dumb big brothers had not yet realised was that saying ‘don’t worry’ had the totally opposite effect than they intended it to have. If there was no need to worry, there was no need to bring it up in the first place. So yes, he was worrying, but he figured that was a perfectly reasonable reaction to two of his big brothers ending up hospitalised after a spectacular mess of a rescue.

Gordon and Kayo were still at the danger zone with Thunderbirds One and Shadow, securing the site while John liaised with local authorities to make sure the incompetence that had caused the high rise building to collapse didn’t happen again. It had been down to Alan to bundle an unconscious Virgil and semi-conscious Scott into Thunderbird Two and straight to the nearest hospital.

Scott had been the one to slur the reassurance his way, big brother instincts working overtime when it was clear the rest of his body just wanted to shut down and pretend the last few hours hadn’t happened. Alan might have found himself reassured if Virgil didn’t have a lump the size of an egg on his head, or if Scott didn’t seem totally and utterly punch drunk (yes, Alan knew what punch drunk looked like; no, he didn’t plan on letting his brothers know that).

Alan had watched his big brothers being wheeled away by hospital orderlies – aside from Scott’s failed attempt to reassure him, there had been no protest from his eldest brother and that raised more alarm bells than anything else, because Scott was a terrible patient and never did what he was told by a medical profession. Especially when there was a younger brother in trouble, and not only did Virgil definitely qualify because he hadn’t stirred once in the journey, but Scott’s big brother smother mode would have counted his youngest brother being left alone in a hospital as ‘in trouble’, too.

So yes, Alan was worried. He was also furious, because by the time a nurse had said he could see his eldest brother – “he’ll be fine, some broken ribs and a concussion but some rest and it’ll all heal up without complications” – and he made it to Scott’s room, the bed was empty.

Cue panic on behalf of the hospital staff, who were all beside themselves at the idea they’d managed to lose a patient. Especially a patient as high profile as Mr Scott Tracy, Commander of International Rescue and CEO of Tracy Industries.

John was still busy heckling the local authorities, and while Alan knew he would put them on hold (and leave them to sweat) instantly if he said Scott had gone missing and they needed help tracking him down, he didn’t make the call. Not yet.

“Hey!” He flagged down one of the scurrying orderlies, who took one look at his uniform and started babbling apologies and reassurances that they would find him and that he was so, so sorry this had happened. Alan waved them off impatiently, vaguely aware that he was mimicking Scott’s own gestures when he was faced with a word vomit he didn’t need. “Where’s Virgil’s room?”

“Mr Tracy – that is, Mr Virgil Tracy – is still under no-visitors,” the orderly informed him, flustered and wringing his hands. “I’m afraid I can’t give you that information.”

Alan sighed.

“Just tell me,” he insisted. He glanced at Scott’s empty room and the poor man got even more flustered.

“I-I’m sure he hasn’t also disappeared,” he assured him frantically.

“It’s a simple question.” Alan crossed his arms and tapped the fingers of his left hand on his right bicep impatiently.

“Hospital policy dictates-”

Alan face-palmed, perfectly aware that that was a Scott trait he’d picked up.

“You’re missing the point,” he said bluntly. “This isn’t about hospital policy, it’s about one of my brothers escaping from his room.” Scott was a terrible patient anyway, but if there was one thing guaranteed to make him truly impossible it was a little brother also hospitalised out of his sight. Alan was under no illusions where Scott had gone. “Look, just go to Virgil’s room, okay? Please?”

“But-”

“Please.” Alan would have preferred to go himself and drag his big brother’s butt back into the bed it was supposed to be in, but it was all too obvious that despite being a member of International Rescue and wearing the uniform to prove it, he wasn’t going to get to check the obvious place himself.

The orderly looked at him with suspicion, and Alan wondered if it would help or hinder his case if he turned on the tried and true puppy dog eyes. With an internal frown, he realised that switching from channelling Scott to pulling out the youngest brother techniques probably wouldn’t work too well. He’d never seen Scott use the puppy dog eyes in his life, and even attempting to picture it just seemed wrong. Nope, he’d started this confrontation as International Rescue Operative In Charge (if only because he was the only IR operative in the area currently capable of carrying that mantle), so he'd have to finish it the same way. Nodding at the orderly in question in what he hoped appropriately channelled Scott’s I’m in charge and I know you’ll do what I said demeanour, he turned away and headed into the abandoned room.

“You’re an idiot, Scott,” he said to the empty bed and limply hanging drips he’d clearly torn out. “Couldn’t you have at least waited for me before trying to see Virgil?” Predictably, the empty bed didn’t have a response for him and with a huff he strode towards the window, knowing there was little to do now except wait for the nurses to find Scott trying to get in to see Virgil and drag him back here.

He hadn’t noticed earlier, but the window looked out directly into the green where he’d landed Thunderbird Two in a bit of a hurry. Beneath the behemoth he could see patches of blackened grass and winced; he knew who’d be paying for the greenskeepers to fix that. Maybe he should have landed on the tarmac, but there hadn’t been a clear space nearby – everyone liked to park as close as possible to the hospital entrance, and Thunderbird Two was so huge there hadn’t been room for her amongst the cars scattered around. The number of cars at a hospital was always sobering, especially considering the general lack of cars used for transport nowadays. Alan was starting to wonder if everyone who had a car also had someone prone to ending up in hospital.

They, of course, had planes. Big, fast planes called Thunderbirds that automatically got them priority treatment because if International Rescue were bringing people in, then clearly it was bad. Or a Tracy and therefore lots of money. Ethically, Alan didn’t like the latter, but selfishly there was a part of him glad his family never had to wait for treatment.

His gaze drifted back to Thunderbird Two, looking almost forlorn with her pilot unconscious in hospital – and dammit, Scott, Alan was worried too! – and a shadow caught his attention. It was too far away to make out any details, but it looked an awful lot like someone was poking around the green Thunderbird.

Virgil would never forgive him if someone sabotaged – or even stole – his precious ‘bird on his watch. Bringing up the Thunderbird’s remote access controls on his wrist communicator, he double-checked that she was completely secure. She was – despite everything going on around him, the instinct to make sure all Thunderbirds were locked down before leaving them had still kicked in. Still, Alan knew he couldn’t leave someone to keep poking at one of their machines unchecked.

With a groan, and a frustrated look at Scott’s empty bed and the equally-empty doorway – had they not found him yet? – Alan tore himself away from the window and stalked out of the room. None of the still hurrying orderlies – clearly no, Scott had not been located yet, and there was a tiny part of Alan that worried about that – tried to engage him in conversation, or indeed do anything except get out of his way, and he strode all the way to the exit, muttering about stupid big brothers and lax security. The receptionist looked vaguely horrified and in the back of his mind he wondered if she thought he was blaming the hospital for losing track of Scott. Well, he kind of was, but mainly he was blaming Scott for wandering off while he was still concussed and presumably doped up on painkillers.

The person was still poking around Thunderbird Two, specifically in the region of her access hatch, when Alan got eyes on the craft again, and his stride turned into a jog.

“Hey!” he shouted, belatedly realising that the person was a lot bigger than him, and that he didn’t have any backup. Perhaps he should have got hold of some hospital security to give him a hand, but it was too late for that. Worst came to the worst, he could interrupt John’s verbal ass-kicking of the local authorities to yell for help. John would be furious, but he’d at least leave the lecture until everyone was safe.

The person turned to face him and he skidded to a halt.

“Seriously?” Alan face-palmed again, before breaking into a sprint and covering the last few metres of ground in seconds. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Hey, Al,” Scott grinned, blue eyes a little too bright and body swaying more than it should. He still looked punch drunk, but Alan was fairly certain that was the painkillers as much as the concussion now. “’s’ll fine, jus’ lu’ing fer Virrrrrg.” His grin broadened, but Alan had known his biggest brother too long to translate the slurred sentence as anything other than “I can’t find Virgil and I’m panicking but I can’t panic in front of Alan.”

Even concussed and high on painkillers, Scott was the mother of all smother hens. Alan rolled his eyes and sidled up next to him, looping under his shoulder and putting a gentle hand around his waist, recalling the nurse’s words about broken ribs.

“Virgil’s not here,” he told him. “He’s in the hospital, where you’re supposed to be.” He’d heard Scott’s - and John’s, and Virgil’s, and even Gordon’s – scolding voice enough times to mimic the general tone of fond yet exasperated disapproval. Scott didn’t seem to notice he was being told off.

“Tunderbirrrrrd ‘oo,” he protested. “Virrrrrg.”

“How did you even get out here in this state?” Alan wondered out loud. “Come on, Scott, let’s go find Virgil.” Via your own bed for a few hours. “I know where he is.”

He didn’t, but Scott didn’t need to know that.

It took some coaxing and gentle prodding before Scott took a stumbling step forwards, away from Thunderbird Two and in the vague direction of the hospital. Alan knew his brother was tall, and muscular, and that combined those two things also meant heavy, so when he was barely co-operating – and apparently unable to walk in a straight line – it was a challenge to manoeuvre him back towards the hospital.

Stairs would be out of the question, which meant they’d have to requisition a lift – or help. Alan should probably let the panicking staff know he’d found their escapee, but when he looked up at Scott, blue eyes still too bright and too-wide grin doing nothing to hide the panic going on inside his head, he couldn’t bring himself to get anyone who wasn’t family involved.

The wide-eyed receptionist watched them stumble in, eyes flickering up and down Scott’s hospital-gowned figure and reminding Alan that they didn’t cover everything his big brother might wish they did, if he was less out of his head on concussion and painkillers, before reaching for the phone. Well, maybe help would be coming anyway, but Alan didn’t bother to wait for it. An elevator helpfully emptied of people as he approached, and Scott all but collapsed into the metal box as Alan stepped in. It took him a moment to remember which floor Scott’s assigned room was, during which some other people filed in, but he pulled Scott to lean against one wall, jabbed the corresponding button, and glared at anyone who looked at his brother too closely.

His vibrant blue and red uniform probably wasn’t helping the stares – everyone knew International Rescue, and while Alan himself wasn’t quite so much in the limelight thanks to certain overprotective brothers (otherwise known as all of them), Scott was a pretty famous face, more or less tied with Mr Olympic Gold Medal And Oh Did I Mention World Record Holder Gordon Tracy, and it didn’t take much of a leap from Alan’s own uniform for the starers to realise who his hospital escapee charge was.

Maybe he should have taken them up the stairs after all, he mused, until Scott swayed alarmingly – more so than he already had been – and Alan realised that as invincible as Scott liked to appear, he would never have made it. Their floor came with a loud ding and he chivvied his brother out of the elevator, mindful of the hospital gown and adding not letting his brother moon anyone else to his list of things to worry about as they shuffled back to the open door of the abandoned room.

The room was no longer empty, instead teaming with nurses who took one look at Scott, whose entire weight felt like it was on Alan’s shoulder at this point, and reached out for him. Unfortunately, that brought Scott’s attention to the fact that none of the people were Virgil, and he tried to make another bid for freedom. Feeling like he was dealing with a young child rather than a supposedly responsible adult and older brother, Alan refused to let him go and glared the nurses into clearing a path to the bed as he all but dragged a suddenly stubborn and digging his heels in Scott back to where he was supposed to be.

“Bu’ Virrrrrg!” Scott complained loudly. Alan had to bodily hold him down – still mindful of the broken ribs – to stop him trying to get up again.

“You can see him soon,” he informed him, trying to remember how Virgil sounded when he laid down the law back on the island. “But first, you are going to stay in this bed and let the nurses do their job, okay?” Scott hesitated, so clearly he’d got somewhere with his Virgil impression.

“Nee’ see Virrrg.” But apparently it hadn’t been perfect.

“You will,” he stressed, gesturing for the nurses to work around him as they picked up discarded plastic tubes and prepared to once again hook Scott up to the stuff he needed to heal. Alan hoped they were going to use a sedative as well, because he knew there was no way he’d be able to keep Scott down much longer without either a sedative or restraints – and he suspected that literal restraints weren’t generally hospital-approved procedure, for all that Virgil and Grandma had a set with Scott’s name on at home.

“Buh-” Scott protested, and Alan took a chance, releasing one shoulder in favour of smoothing his brother’s hair back from his face. It was a gesture Scott often did for him when he was the one stuck in bed, and he hoped it would reassure his brother as much as it always did him.

“I’m here, Scotty,” he promised. “You can see Virgil soon.”

He hoped, anyway. No-one had explicitly said as much, but it was Virgil. A knock to the head wouldn’t keep him down for long, right?

Scott stopped struggling, big blue eyes blinking up at him. It reminded Alan of his earlier attempts to imagine Scott utilising the puppy dog eyes, and he’d been right – it did look wrong.

“Al?” he asked, quietly, and Alan smiled at him.

“I’m here,” he repeated, stroking his brother’s hair back again. “It’s okay.”

To his alarm, those big blue eyes welled with tears.

“M’faul’,” Scott mumbled. “T’s’ow. Di’n m’vve ‘nt’me.”

Alan hadn’t been in the building when the last straining support had given way. Like Gordon, he’d been on triage as their bigger brothers tackled the task of getting everyone out. He didn’t know what, exactly, had happened except they’d been hit by falling debris, but if there was one thing he definitely did know, it was that there was no way either of them had done any less than they could possibly have done to protect each other.

“It’s not your fault,” he assured him with the confidence that came from knowing his brothers better than they knew themselves. “I know you did everything you could, Scotty, and Virgil knows that, too.”

Scott let out a disbelieving whimper, and Alan hushed him, hating the sight of his eldest brother so vulnerable. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen him injured – or even injured and still worrying about someone else – but that never made it any easier.

Around them, the hustle and bustle of the nurses died down. Alan didn’t dare tear his eyes away from Scott, because he knew if he did he’d be right back to square one, but he assumed that meant they were done.

“Virrrrrg?”

“He’s in good hands,” Alan promised, perching on the side of the bed and slowly lifting his hand from where it was restraining Scott’s shoulder. Scott didn’t instantly try to get up, and Alan hoped that meant he was too tired for another escape attempt. It was no point hoping that it was an agreement not to hunt down Virgil, because Alan knew full well there was nothing on the planet, not even Grandma, that could elicit that. “Let’s focus on you for now, okay, Scotty? You’ve got a concussion and broken ribs and you know Virgil would be upset if you made yourself worse because of him.”

He wasn’t sure how much of what he was saying Scott was even hearing anymore. His too-bright eyes were taking on a glaze Alan knew from experience meant he was on the verge of sleep, and he risked a glance at the nurse still in the room.

Sedated? he mouthed and she nodded, holding her fingers together, close but not quite touching, in the universal sign for ‘just a little’. Of course; with the concussion they couldn’t risk him going too far under. Alan nodded his understanding and turned his attention back to his brother, who was still slurring Virgil’s name even as his eyes slipped shut.

Alan stroked his hair again, even though his brother couldn’t feel it, and felt far older than his fifteen years.

“Mr Tracy, I apologise again-”

He held up a hand to stem the flow of apologies.

“It’s Alan,” he corrected, not prepared for the weight of the title Mr Tracy, especially not when Scott was going to be fine after some rest. “And it’s fine; he’s always like that. How’s Virgil?”

“I’m not involved in his care but I can find out for you,” she offered, and he rewarded her with a thankful smile. Correctly interpreting that as a cue to leave, she vanished out of the door, closing it behind her softly. Once again alone with his eldest brother, Alan sighed.

“You’re a nightmare, Scott,” he grumbled, but he could feel that he was still smiling, just a little. “But if you don’t do it again, I promise I won’t tell the others. Not even Gordon.” Scott didn’t react, not that Alan had expected him to, and he slid off of the bed to drag one of the visitor chairs over.

There was never anything fun about sitting by an injured brother, especially when they were asleep and didn’t know you were there, but Alan didn’t resort to any of his usual tactics – games stored in his wrist communicator, or even tv to stream. It wasn’t often that he was the only conscious member of his family in a hospital, and the weight of responsibility for both of his brothers’ welfare until Gordon and Kayo arrived or John stopped tearing into local authorities long enough to make his presence known virtually settled on his shoulders in a way he’d never really felt before.

Was this how Scott felt all the time, he wondered, looking at his brother’s face. Most people went slack when they slept, but Scott was still frowning. Alan wished he could wipe that expression off of his face, but he didn’t have the first idea how.

The door opened, rattling slowly on its rail, and he glanced over, expecting to see the nurse returning with news about Virgil.

It wasn’t the nurse.

“No.” The word slipped out from his mouth in an unbidden deadpan.

“Hey, Al,” Virgil said in an exact mimicry of Scott’s earlier greeting. Like Scott, he was unsteady on his feet, eyes a little too wide and bright. “Sco’?”

“Asleep, like you should be,” Alan scolded even as he was leaving his chair to loop an arm around his second misbehaving brother of the day – and neither of them were Gordon! With Scott performing acts of escapism and proving why he had the reputation of being a terrible patient, he had totally forgotten that Scott was not the only terrible patient in the family.

“Sco’kay?” Virgil asked, leaning heavily on Alan, who tried not to stumble at the sudden weight. Virgil might not be as tall as Scott, but he was definitely thicker set and therefore at least as heavy.

“Concussion and broken ribs,” Alan told him, knowing that even concussed and loopy on painkillers, Virgil wasn’t going to settle until he had an answer. “Come on, sit down before you fall down. I can’t carry you.” He dragged his brother over to Scott’s bed, knowing that technically he should be dragging him back to his own bed but with no clue where his room was that wasn’t exactly an option.

Virgil went willingly, until Alan tried to get him to sit in his vacated seat. Then, the family bear dug his claws in and lunged for the bed itself. With far too much speed and dexterity for his drugged up and concussed state, Virgil managed to get himself into the bed, avoiding all of the wires and tubes attached to their eldest brother.

“I guess that works,” Alan sighed, watching as Scott unconsciously gave Virgil some room, before leaning against his younger brother. Virgil fell asleep almost instantly, and with a start Alan realised the frown on Scott’s face had vanished. “What am I supposed to do with you two?” he grumbled, adjusting the sheet so that it covered both of them before flopping back into his chair.

Having both of his brothers in the same room eased some of the tension he hadn’t noticed in his chest, especially as it meant they were both up to their usual tricks and were therefore definitely going to be fine.

Outside in the corridor there were sounds of more frantic footfalls, and he glanced over at the still-open door just in time to see the nurse from earlier appear, looking harried.

“I-” she started, before catching sight of the bed. Discomfort turned to exasperation, and she walked in, shaking her head.

“Sorry,” Alan shrugged. “Once Thunderbird One gets here, we’ll take them home and get them out of your hair.”

“Are they always like this?” she asked, checking both of them over. There was a soft look on her face as she realised the pair of them were ever so slightly curled up around each other.

“Its less hassle if they’re in the same room,” he said wryly. “For everyone.” In the distance, he heard a familiar engine. Gordon and Kayo were evidently done. “If you could get the doctor, we can start signing them out.”

She looked startled for a moment, glancing back at the still sleeping pair. “But-”

“Think of it as a hospital transfer,” Alan suggested, knowing full well that hospitals didn’t typically discharge still-sleeping patients but also having heard all of his brothers make this case before. “We have our own facilities at base for care. Facilities more used to their escaping tendencies,” he added with a wink and she laughed.

“I’ll get the doctor,” she agreed, although she didn’t move immediately. Her gaze had been captured by something outside the window, and despite knowing what was there, Alan glanced out anyway to see Gordon tentatively landing Thunderbird One next to her big green sister. He couldn’t see Thunderbird Shadow, but the sound of two different engines told him that Kayo’s ship was in camouflage mode.

“The doctor?” he prompted after a moment, when she still hadn’t moved. She flushed and backed out of the room, leaving him to level a fond glower at his sleeping brothers. “You’re ridiculous,” he told both of them.

Typically, there was no response. Brothers.

#badthingshappenbingo #bad things happen bingo #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #alan tracy #virgil tracy #thunderfluff

66 notes · View notes

lokiondisneyplus · 4 years

Link

Today I left the house wearing a face mask for the first time.

I had woken up to the sound of heavy rain, which is always surreal in Los Angeles, and when I look out of the window to the hauntingly dehumanising sight of bandana-clad dog walkers, an eerie weight settles as I remember: this is our reality now.

I’m standing in the supermarket queue, a line dotted by crosses taped on the floor of the underground car park to signify our designated 6ft distance. Easily 50 people long and snaking around the perimeter of the building, I make my way to the last available X-marks-the-spot and join the other masked Bandits. I haven’t food shopped for over a week and am in need of supplies.

There is an obnoxiously loud man two crosses ahead of me ranting into his phone with such a high energy, the surrounding Bandits have allowed an extended social distance of a cross on either side of him. I sigh, remembering I’ve left my headphones at home, so am unable to tune him out, I wait and exhale, wondering how I am going to get used to the claustrophobic sensation of hot air and fabric condensing on my face.

Loud Phone Man is not wearing a mask and it's clear we’ve passed the tipping point of mild judgement, at least here in LA, where Bandits exchange a raised eyebrow, (about the only non-verbal Bandit communication available) which somehow magnifies the annoyance of this shopper - not only loud, but breathing indiscriminately all over us in this confined space… what does he think this is? Last week??

It’s Monday on #Week4 of Covid-19 lockdown in La La Land and as I shuffle to the next X I reflect on the journey so far.

After a whirlwind press tour to promote the release of Misbehaviour in UK cinemas (sadly cinemas were shuttered just days after the film's theatrical release – but it's available to watch online at home from April 15th!) I returned to work in Atlanta for Loki, the Marvel limited series for Disney Plus I’ve been working on, so am on set when I get the news that we are going on hiatus as a precaution due to the accelerating coronavirus, initially for one week. Thinking it would be longer, but still unsure at that point, I book a flight to LA to sit things out there for the time being. The next day Trump imposes a travel ban on travelling in or out of the US for 30 days, and with my visa situation and the pace at which everything is moving, it feels risky to fly to the UK in case I cannot get back into the country when filming recommences, whenever that will be.

So, with my housemate and her dog for company, we embark on social distancing, self-isolation and Lady Macbeth-level hand-washing.

Managing a constant low-level anxiety about my parents and loved ones, and friends in New York, London, Johannesburg and all over the world, I become consumed by the news, glued to the BBC website and KCRW talk radio for the latest figures. Like families gathered around “the wireless” in wartime, everything is unfolding so rapidly and the news, never this dramatic in my lifetime, takes on disaster-movie proportions.

FaceTime and WhatsApp become my lifelines as the reality of the pandemic is tinged with a weird detachment… a numbness I later realise was a form of shock that lasts for nearly two weeks and puts me into a hyper-focused state as I race to keep up, stay informed and learn how to adapt to this new rhythm.

I am of course aware that I am so privileged to be safe and personally unaffected thus far, but grasping the truth from what is overblown, and fact from politics and propaganda, give everything an out-of-body zero gravity quality; a new normal we are all united in.

Things are kicking off in the food line as my attention is caught by an exasperated Valley Girl three Xs ahead who finally explodes at Loud Phone Man, “ OH MY GAAAAD, USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE, CANT YOU SEEEEE EVERYONE IS LOOKING AT YOU CAUSE YOU’RE TALKING SO LOUD… WE ALL HAVE TO STAND HERE, OHMYGAAAD!” As she stomps her Ugged feet to the next X the security guard and smiling store employee (no mask) approach and I can feel a repressed inside-voice-cheer emanate from the rest of the line in applause.

The Bandit Couple ahead of me raise another eyebrow in solidarity and Female Bandit begins to capture a video of Loud Phone Man on her iPhone. The air gets thin, the energy tightens, “Hey Man,” Smiling Store Employee intercepts, Security guard flanking, “You wanna keep it down a bit, people are stressed, y’know? Thanks Man.” Valley Girl scowls, Bandit couple exchange glances, while still filming, Loud Phone Man defends, “I WASN’T EVEN TALKING THAT LOUUUUUD!!!” (Collective Bandit eyeroll) “YESSSSS YOU WERE!!!” Hisses Valley Girl, “Yeah Man, sorry you were,” Store Employee placates. taking the referee stance. I notice Loud Phone Man is wearing flip-flops, on a rainy day. He continues his conversation into his device, phone held to his lips, like a dictaphone, barely any quieter. “We have to be prepared…”

I sigh and feel warm breath on my cheeks. Mouth drying I look at my phone for escape and see that Boris Johnson has been admitted into intensive care for persistent and worsening Covid-19 symptoms. I suddenly feel very far from home and very sad.

I remember the things I’ve been doing to keep grounded and my spirits up. One of the benefits of turning out old cupboards was rediscovering my long dormant art materials. Painting, such an absorbing and transporting activity for me in childhood, was once something I considered doing instead of acting, but found it a little socially isolating - so acting won because it felt more collaborative. Now, of course, painting in isolation is perfect and becomes the most comforting of pastimes and a creative channel as I make images of my family and feel like I am spending time with them.

Understanding how superfluous actors are in a crisis such as this, I come to terms with the fact that staying at home, as passive as it may seem, is my contribution for now. Having the luxury of not having to home-school any children and knowing my work is pretty much on pause until social distancing recedes, I try to reframe this time as a chance to rest and refill the creative well. I read novels for pleasure, something I rarely find time for beyond work-related reads. I take my first Zoom yoga class (alexdawsonyoga.com), I join a 21-day online meditation experience (chopracentermediation.com), I take local hikes for fresh air and make first ever batches of banana bread and chicken soup. I even buy a mini trampoline online which, after a mildly challenging self-assembly, I’ve been sweating it out on to streamed classes online (lekfit.com) with a friend in Toronto, followed by accountability FaceTime coffee dates to virtually high five!

By the end of week two, the adrenalin crash truly hits and I’m exhausted from the constant rhythm shifting, news consumption and uncertainty. I’m an eternal optimist and good at self-motivating, but even when you’re Keeping Calm and Carrying on, you need to crash at some point. I nearly cry when I get my mum an Ocado food delivery slot - nothing has been available for weeks - and the “what ifs” that I have been keeping at bay with all my other activities release with relief and gratitude.

That’s when I discover Brené Brown’s new podcast Unlocking Us and find such solace in her calm and thoroughly researched words and conversations. Since her TED talk fame as a charismatic shame and vulnerability researcher, I’ve read all of her books and there is always something practical and nourishing in her work, told with humour and in a deeply relatable way - which I’ve found comfort in while in the midst of folding laundry, cleaning the bath or chopping vegetables.

Back in the food line and things are moving; the tension of the Loud Phone Man Vs Valley Girl dispute still simmers but everyone relaxes as they get closer to the front-door finish line. Smiling Store Employee does his speech on the new system: no reusable bags allowed, sanitised trollies and a one-way system in the aisles inside marked by arrows on the floor, to minimise contact with other customers. It all feels so surreal and regimented, but the Bandits, already drained from the 30-minute wait, constant Loud Phone Man soundtrack, near car park fight and everything else they’re all adjusting to, nod wearily behind their moist makeshift masks. It’s a bizarre sight.

Still chatting, Loud Phone Man makes it in and there’s a collective “phew” eye-contact exchanged between Smiling Store Employee and the remaining Bandits. Then his smile drops and crinkles for a second. “Yeah, he’s been in every day this week. It’s kinda sad. There’s no one on the phone.” The Bandits' brows knot quizzically. “Yeah, I think he has mental health issues, he just talks but the phone’s not on and he has no ear pieces, he just talks into it… 'They’re coming, we have to be prepared.'… I don’t know what to do.”

The reality breaks my heart. It seems to highlight the collective insanity we’ve all been processing and in that moment I just feel so frustrated at the state of the world and how this pandemic has exposed so many cracks in our society - from mental health to healthcare to privilege and poverty, everything just feels so raw.

I try to look for the silver linings and, among all the fear and anxiety and loss, I’ve been so inspired by human resilience, adaptability and creativity. I’m hopeful this great pandemic leveller will bring a new era of authenticity. An opportunity to shift mentality from Me to We.

Week three in self-isolation felt almost normal, which feels weird to admit. I’m getting lots of sleep and take regular meditative baths, which I’ve renamed Home Spa. I’ve found ways to safely contribute in my local community. When the shelves were bare from panic buying, I chatted with the manager of our local grocery store, who seemed so overwhelmed, so my housemate and I volunteered to stack shelves after hours. Although not exactly the front lines, we have fun and it feels good to give something back in our small way.

We of course negotiated to be paid in baked beans and toilet paper.

#Gugu Mbatha-Raw #Loki #Disney+#coronavirus #Covid-19 #lockdown

11 notes · View notes

stimsensory · 4 years

Text

Getting Diagnosed: 2

After I had been referred for assessment, I was apparently seen in school by a Community Paediatrician. I don’t actually remember any of this, but apparently the meeting was fairly short and, according to my parents, I asked some rather blunt, inappropriate questions, such as asking whether the doctor (who I assume had an accent) was speaking English. Now, I can get how embarrassing and rude that must’ve been, but at the time I probably only asked because I was struggling to understand them (I still struggle with strong accents sometimes, or even no accents when overwhelmed, but I wouldn’t ask that now!).

The paediatrician basically summarised that whilst I showed quite a lot of traits of Asperger’s Syndrome, they wanted to wait and get more information before coming to a conclusion, which is fair enough. The appointment was fairly short, and it can be very difficult to get a full view of someone’s development after only a single, short, meeting.

At this point, my parents started looking into private options. For readers outside of the UK: most British people don’t use private healthcare, as we rely upon the NHS for many, if not all, of our medical needs. It is not common for people to buy private healthcare. It tends to allow you to essentially jump from a long queue to a shorter queue, and can mean longer appointments. Nowadays, the NHS still provides amazing physical healthcare. However, it’s mental healthcare has long waiting lines. Once you finish waiting, the care can be great. But many are forced to wait for months, if not years, for assessments for disorders like ASD.

Luckily for us, my dad had private healthcare from his employers (again, not a very common occurrence as far as I know) so we were able to seek private help. I saw a Child Neuropsychologist for around an hour a week for 6 weeks (as far as I remember). This allowed her to get to know me better and see me for longer. Rather than just seeing me once, she saw me across a longer timeline and therefore had a better understanding of my problems.

From what I remember, essentially I went to a lady’s house every week, and sat with her in the kitchen whilst my parents waited in a little room with a sofa. I remember we would do a variety of tests, that I actually enjoyed because they seemed like puzzles. For example, I remember I had to read a paragraph and recall some of it (not really interesting), and decode some symbols (way more fun). So I thought that was pretty cool, even if I didn’t actually really know what was going on or why. To be honest, I don’t remember caring that much. Maybe I thought it was tutoring, or some kind of test for school.

I did not realise my social skills were also being assessed, which is actually very good as it meant I would not have been tempted to camouflage any ‘odd’ things I did. At that point, I wasn’t really aware of which of my behaviours were considered ‘weird’, or which of my social skills were lacking. All I really knew was that I did not understand people and most of them did not understand me. I would much rather read than socialise, because other people were confusing and stressful. I had no clue why every other child could easily make friends, but rejected me almost instantly. Even according to my diagnosis, most of my classmates apparently found me annoying, whilst a few ‘tolerated’ me. So overall, I understood that I was not behaving ‘normally’, but I had no clue how to figure out what I was doing ‘wrong’ or how to change it.

Anyway, one specific aspect of the social evaluation always stood out to me. I remember at one point the Neuropsychologist told me I could bring in toys if I wanted. I took this to mean that I ought to bring some toys in, and therefore took some Sylvanian families toys in to the next meeting. From my own perspective, she never brought the toys up during the session, which confused me. I assumed I was meant to play with them, because why else would she have told me I could bring them? So I just stopped a task and played with them, because I wanted to and because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. Now, according to my assessment, “[I] would suddenly break away from a task we were in the midst of to take out a toy to play with”. Which, whilst technically true from the view of an observer, does not really fully explain my behaviour. As a side note, that is one of the main problems I find in many aspects of autism research. Many researchers make assumptions from their own, non-autistic perspective, and often assume that is the only possible reason for engaging in a certain behaviour. They often also use autism theories to explain them, which again may rely upon inferences. If the Neuropsychologist had asked why I brought the toy out I could have told her (which is not possible for many non-verbal autistic people).

Other than the above though, the Neuropsychologist noted a lot of my autistic traits. She reported after around 20 minutes I started to get fidgety in my chair (something still true today!) and was very observant of visual details. I did not engage in conversation without prompting, and made variable, occasionally inappropriate eye contact. I apparently lacked a ‘Theory of Mind’. I agree that at that point, I did not really have a well developed ToM, but now I do believe I have a fairly good ability to understand and empathise with other people, if I can figure out what they are feeling and why. I think this ToM developed in secondary school, when I essentially realised and reluctantly accepted that others did things for reasons I did not know, and would not tell me. I did not understand why others did seemingly inexplicable things, and kind of took too long to realise they don’t automatically know what I mean or experience.

When she did IQ tests, she found I had an uneven skill-set. I won’t say what my exact IQ scores were, because many people (myself included, some of the time, unless it is specifically asked) find it pretentious. But basically I did very well on the ‘Perceptual Reasoning Index’ which had stuff like visualising 3D objects I think, and a lot lower on my ‘Working Memory’, ‘Verbal Comprehension’, and ‘Processing Speed Index’. I also had a very low executive skill score, along with a low visual-motor skill score. That is the reason I was allotted extra time in exams; my processing speed is far slower than would be expected from the other scores.

At the end of all of this, I was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. In more recent documents, this is usually referred to as ‘High Functioning Autism’ of ‘Autism Spectrum Disorder’, as Asperger’s is no longer diagnosed in the DSM-5. My parents told me about the diagnosis a few months after I got it. I remember reading a few notes that suggested they were told to wait until I was around 15-16 to tell me. I am very glad they told me earlier, as it meant I no longer felt like I was just failing at socialising whilst everyone else was passing without even trying. I do not exactly remember how they told me, but I think my reaction was a little anti-climactic, as I had never really heard of autism or Asperger’s before that, which is probably good as I did not have to deal with all of the fear mongering in the media. I had no previous assumptions about autism, other than ‘huh, that’s a thing that I have that explains why I struggle with social stuff’. Once I started researching autism, it was amazing to read other people’s accounts and just think ‘hey! I do that!’ and feel like you weren’t the odd one out any more.

My actual diagnostic assessment had a lot more in it (it’s a fairly long document), but I’ve kept it brief because it’s quite personal, and because this post is already pretty long.

From what I’ve read and seen, diagnostic assessments have changed a lot over the past few years. It can apparently take months, even years, for that fairly short initial appointment. I was also lucky to have a Neuropsychologist who was aware of the differences in how autism often presents in females vs males. Nowadays, there is more attention being paid to autistic females who may have gone undiagnosed, which is hopefully a step in the right direction.

19 notes · View notes

gawaine · 6 years

Text

by popular demand: welcome to the saga of Fuckboy Supreme

*sigh* aka i’m dumb, what’s new

i’m going to try and keep this short bc ffs

Fuckboy Supreme (FS for short). Mr Popular of my cohort. hangs out at the back w/ the rest of the rugby boys. blonde, blue eyed... not my type.

i’d identified him as the FS of the year early on and Blonde Pop and I established that he, and my other friend Steffan, were probably the two best looking single guys in our course (not saying much). I heard that he was from money and was clearly trying to hide it (E much?) and I saw a lot of similarities. he was interesting to watch every now and then but I didn’t think we’d ever really cross paths.

except one day, we end up thrown together in clin. skills, alongside his best friend + housemate (Human Shield, for future reference. he becomes important later) and we kind of chat and lo and behold, he’s actually a pretty chill guy? nice enough to talk to. to the point where I tell my friends this (we all sit together down at the front) and I shock both FS and HS when I see them around and say hi (after HS and I spend a hospital shift together on NICU). more importantly, in that clin. skills session, me and HS are meant to “watch [FS] closely” to give feedback and I notice that this dude’s legs are absolutely insane, sculpted out of effing marble, and that same day, he’s happy to whip off his shirt (we’re doing resp. exams) and keep it off as he talks to someone. and I see he has a scar on his shoulder and ofc bc ME I’m like “omg sO PRETTY AND CLEAN” and he lets me basically play around with his weird af shoulder (old injury, post-surgery) as he chats to one of our tutors and I’m chatting to another tutor about the scarring. and he smells clean and he’s not super sculpted, as one would expect, but he’s lean in a natural, soft kinda way and i’m like okay, cool. and we chat a little and he’s nice about me not having a science background and w/e.

weeks go by, we say hi every now and then. then I slowly become obsessed with his legs.

it’s a slow process but the boy keeps walking into lectures, right by my seat to get to his, and he wears shorts and seriously... l e g s. but I’m wary of this so I’m happy to objectify him and for a time it works; idgaf if he notices (he doesn’t) and my friends find it hilarious, but I tell them I’m not interested in anything above the neck (or really, anything that isn’t thighs down) bc happy to stare and not know a thing about his personality thank you very much.

... I go out of my way to stand by that. and then, in a particularly shitty lecture one day, as I’m contemplating trying a psych shift, I realise the only person I know of who’s done what I’m interested in is... FS.

I decide fuck it, I’ll just message and ask - no being polite or friendly, straight to the point bc it’s work and I’m not there to open a door (even though, and I tell the girls this, by opening up messaging I feel like I am). this causes a non-stop 45min FB chat - I mean non-stop - and he’s hilarious. super hilarious. he’s also flirting w/ me and whilst I know this is all bc he’s FS (and I tell him so - he finds it v. funny), it’s a fun convo and it’s harmless and I reckon he’s just playing up bc we’re both bored.

... things escalate quickly.

we message back and forth a lot - he’s very quick and sharp, so he keeps up w/ me easily, but I’m treating him as I would anyone else. this lasts a while, but he keeps flirting and I keep telling him he’s a moron and eventually say if he keeps it up I’m just going to treat him like a psych experiment.

... I assume him continuing means he knows i’m being serious.

he becomes my psych experiment. lots of things being studied, including E and stuff from my dissertation etc etc and although at this point I know we’re embroiled in a weird power struggle, I stop giving a fucks because hey, he’s an experiment to me and i’m an unofficial therapist for him, right? win win. i don’t NEED to give a fuck about how it comes across.

2 weeks later, i’m sitting in the library while he’s at home, and we end up arguing over FB. he starts off polite but it quickly becomes i’m being intrusive, messaging him a lot, etc; why can’t I treat him like Aussie Essex (Blonde Pop’s housemate and my friend, as well as FS’) aka a normal friend and I’m like “lol but we’re not friends”, which we’ve both acknowledged before, but my stance is: I know things about him bc I asked specific things bc psychoanalysis. He doesn’t know anything about me. Friendship is mutual, that isn’t. basically I’m like “look, i’m sorry, have a nice life” in nicer words (bc I’m lost bc in my mind - I TOLD him he was a psych experiment??) and he’s all “what so you’re going to ignore me forever now haha” in not so many words and I’m like ???, but when he doesn’t respond, i’m like cool, we’re dead to each other, fine.

the girls notice how fucking ICE COLD we are w/ each other when we’re in the common room, though we wouldn’t normally talk, and Trout (not indicative of her face; a girl we both know, a member of the School - aka the group of girls who worship FS and his friends in my year, they have literally sat at FS’ feet before - who at this point, has been watching me and FS for a while) gets smug. bear in mind, after that first FB chat, I was throwing an event as co-president of the trauma society and was making the rounds around the common room to see who was coming and, after some initial back and forth, I commanded FS to come and he was like “fuck OKAY. okay? shit yes, okay” (he didn’t come and was meant to help me get numbers, but he fucked that too. idk if it was deliberate. it was a success anyway tho so w/e) and Trout was all ?!?!?! because she watches FS like a hawk and so he and I talking clearly confused her

but then a few days later he sees me sitting alone in lectures where I don’t usually sit and he’s like “morning Hannah” and, too shocked to do anything else, I auto-reply “morning [FS]” and just like that we’re okay again?

after the fight, I message him once - a silly message in a lecture by a 1st world Barbie - to test his reaction to the lecture more than anything else, but he doesn’t reply, which I suspected, but after that... no FB. I refuse to break that rule.

BUT I do grab him a couple of times when he walks by my seat in the break; I apologise face-to-face after he says hi and he apologises for the misunderstanding regarding the argument (he may have said hi after that?? idk) and he basically demands we’re friends and I’m like yeah whatever sure pal

but then he walks in one day wearing a beanie just like E’s and I. i just. it becomes a thing. i have a really cute bobble hat I wear every day bc our lecture theatre is colder than the Arctic fucking circle and so as I joke about him competing, I’m really freaking out bc that’s when I realise just how MUCH he reminds me of E. this hat becomes a Thing. I grab it one time and threaten to keep it hostage with Blonde Pop in front of all of his friends and they look at me like I’m insane, confused, lost at how I, a Front Row Person, dares to challenge FS. I’m literally in high school again.

aware of that, I die it down... and long story short, somehow, FS starts saying hi more and more in the morning and we have these mini chats (once the hat thing dies down), but it’s really tiny.

then I fuck up my wrist.

it pisses me off bc he’s clearly curious but doesn’t ask and I’m like “further proof we’re not friends” to myself but by this point, so much little shit has happened that all of my friends know what’s going on (lbr they did anyway) and his School are aware of me too - but OH - so there was this med school ball thing and we both went and that’s when I got more E vibes and I was like “fuck this” bc the more I avoided it the more it was happening and he was avoiding me and so AFTER that I was like “fuck this” and planned on ignoring him but that just... didn’t happen (I’m omitting so much of the finer details).

so yeah, he’s annoying me about my wrist bc he’s eavesdropping when I talk to my friend about it, but... nothing? so I’m like w/e fuck this dude and by this point, as an accidental by product of me being pissed with him at the ball (and myself), I’m dealing with some other male Situations and it’s pissing me off

bUT then exam week arrives and we have a really lovely chat before anatomy and he’s being all sweet and friendly and the School is confused and HS is confused (HS is perpetually confused when it comes to me and FS, which is odd, bc otherwise we’re pretty chill w/ each other) but at this point something doesn’t feel right bc I’m good w/ body language, right? communication, esp non-verbal, is my thing. and he’s being weird.

then I come home for the weekend to get my wrist seen to and Blonde Pop goes out with everyone else to celebrate exams being over (I leave with 2 of my other friends right after) and FS sees Blonde Pop, who he’s spoken to bc of me enough times now, and he asks where I am - and that’s weird bc we NEVER have spoken in a social setting so I’m like??

we get back; he stops before lectures and comments on my temporary cast (fracture clinic appointment tomorrow guys, prayer circle) and says something like “oh, well it’s good it’s completely immobilised” (30mins later i realise why this bothered me; he’s quoted me directly from when he was eavesdropping on me and my friend discussing the injury accidentally, and I’m like aHA I KNEW IT) and I make a flippant comment about yeah, but it’s not great for getting dressed in the morning and he’s like “oh, I’ll help you get dressed” and I look at him like wtf bc lol he’s such a moron but also ??? but then he sees Kelly and bolts, though he was laughing too and trying to justify that comment (badly) and for perspective, I tell Kelly and she immediately picks up my phone to see it and I’m like no, this just happened in person and she’s like what the actual fUCK bc that is not the level FS and I are in person so it’s not just me ok

and then later I see him sitting with Aussie Essex and when I go to speak to AE he’s like “hi??” and me, not hearing him but seeing him watching me, am all flippantly like “oh hey” and carry on but it throws me tf off bc we’ve had our one convo of the day inside the lecture theatre and this is getting weird and i’m immediately like ?? did he sit with Aussie Essex knowing I’d say hi? wtf?

then it’s the end of term pub quiz collecting money for charity (I’m using so much ‘then’, it’s disgusting and u can see i’m not in writer mode) and my gut tells me to avoid FS bc he’s leaving after lectures the next day but everyone is like wtf no come, it’ll be chill, so I do, and it’s fine, and he’s there and right in my line of vision but i’m like w/e w/e and we kinda say hi but it’s in passing and at this point, I’m on good terms with like... the majority of the guys in his little gang (he lives with 4 of them, so I’m polite to all of them on some level) and so when HS is introducing me to his gf, it’s fine... until he’s like “oh btw I forgot to tell you - this is [FS’] girl”

??????????????????

things escalate quickly. first FS sends me hearts, I flip him off, then he starts talking and I can’t hear so I go over and that’s when I get fucking ambushed by his housemate, who I only have spoken to once or so but know his gf but will hereby be known as Buttface... about how they’ve all (FS’ friends) given every girl on each row a percentage of how much they think that girl fancies FS. I’ve scored one of the highest - 73%, alongside another girl with a slight reputation (no judgement) who has been all over FS the majority of the night so far.

the more I defend myself, the more Buttface claims that’s proof of it being true (as a lit grad, do you know how much that logic offends me???) and FS only repeats that he wasn’t a part of the convo, it was only about him so not to blame him. but he listens smugly. things escalate. i’m ashamed to admit i’m so thrown off that i am not my best and as things continue to escalate, i feel too blindsided to do what I want to (though I do half-slap FS once bc I can’t fully slap him in a room full of our course w/o Drama, and though I go to spill a drink on him twice, everyone stops me) and it’s a mess and once it’s over, i’m raging and have to leave. a lot of people stay out though, so half of the lecture is too hungover the next day... so I don’t see FS and that week, we broke off for Xmas break. but before i left, I nudged HS and was like “wtf so you and your house talk about me a lot...” (literally aLL OF FS’ housemates are familiar w/ the topic) and HS is like “nah, I reckon he fancies YOU” and I know HS is a shit stirrer so it pisses me off more

Blonde Pop is raging for me. Broski is like “meh, men”, though Percival takes offence at the shitty logic; but Deej and Cap (who I travelled with) are like lol what this is a victory. in the power struggle, you’re winning. he doesn’t think we know about all of this; but you’re clearly important enough for all of his housemates to know your name. Lulu and Dragon Jock see me the next day; I make Lulu give me a hug bc I’m like “am I giving off hoe vibes??” and Lulu, who is soft and smiley and a cinnamon roll, is all “nO IT’S LAD CULTURE AND IT’S RUBBISH” and it’s very cute and defensive of me and Dragon Jock is just like “lol i’ll hit ‘em”. which is nice.

general consensus is to ignore the fuck outta him come going back in 2 weeks but?? idk if I can? it’s not that simple bc we have the rest of the course together and I know that he’ll act like everything’s fine and if i say why i’m pissed, Buttface will use that as ‘proof’ (rather than me being horrified at their audacity, I mean CHRIST ON A STICK) and if I don’t, it’s still proof... Broski says this won’t go away anytime soon bc of that reason but that isn’t satisfactory either

and like i clearly try to blend into the bg to avoid drama and now i’m like? why bother?? when we all went for takeout in our last night in Swans before heading home, Cap was like “i find it hilarious how you have so much drama around you” and when I was all “i sit in my room and watch Netflix tho??”, he was like “... that’s why it’s hilarious” and tbh yes, but not in a funny way, in more of a dAMN IT way

fuck blending? it makes no difference? hence me accepting my femininity, bc... screw everyone else, I’ll do what the fuck I want

but yeah. that’s the latest.

also, in slapping him, i felt his stubble and that was not the one.

berate me freely, go forth...

#the student diaries #fuckboy supreme #goodnight #finndamrron #franklyineedcoffee #i thought it'd be easier to say it in one go

3 notes · View notes

fem-castielnovak · 7 years

Text

That Kindred Deep

tags: 12x11 coda, selective mutism, bonding, bunker life, Dean needs a hug, Dean gets a hug

[ao3]

"...and then," Dean interrupts himself with a laugh, "and then, because I can't speak or anything at this point, I just hold up the fucking sticky note that says 'Witch Killing Bullets.'"

From the corner of his eye he can see that Sam shakes his head, but is grinning over the top of his mug. He keeps looking at Dean every now and then. Dean's trying not to think about how bad it must have been for Sam, having to watch him deteriorate like that.

"I don't understand," Cas says. And Dean's ready to roll his eyes as he refocuses his attention on him. But he looks carefully at Cas - sitting there in pajamas with a mug of coffee cradled in his hands - and realizes that he's wearing his concerned face, not his confused one.

"Logically, you would've lost the ability to read before losing the ability to speak. Humans have only had written language for about 5000 years. It would have made the most sense for you to have lost the ability to read, then your ability to speak would have degraded in stages, verbal cues would have stopped making sense to you, and then you'd have progressively lost the ability to communicate altogether."

Normally, this is the part where Dean would get up and noisily wash his dishes before saying something about turning in for the night, and leave Sam to answer or excuse any of Cas's questions. But Dean catches Sam's eye, and it's not like Sam's ever had any trouble reading his brother's expressions, so he makes his way out of the room. Dean takes a careful sip from his cup.

"Although, I suppose you might have maintained the ability to speak without the ability to form coherent or meaningful phrases. Something doesn't add up though."

Dean clears his throat, "Cas? 've I ever told you about what it was like for me just after mom died?"

Cas leans back in his seat a little, as if to give Dean room to talk, but he responds by shaking his head.

"Well, uh, I- ... I was traumatized," he laughs falsely, "There ain't really another word for it. There was obviously a lot going on - we didn't exactly have a place to live, and Dad was freaking out while still having to try and take care of a four year old and a six month old. So, what ended up happening was, because of all that I just ... stopped talking." He rolls his shoulders twice in an uncomfortable semblance of a shrug. "That was how I reacted. And it's how I keep reacting to really stressful events. I mean, not always, but ... yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "Sometimes ... there's not a reason. I just can't talk. Because of the situation or whatever. Selective mutism, they call it." Cas's face isn't impassive, but it hasn't changed since Dean started talking. Babbling. Dean stifles a sigh, "'S why, sometimes, after nightmares or really bad hunts, it's hard for me to find my voice." That's how Bobby had always put it - not that there was something wrong with him, or that he'd gone dumb in the biblical sense of the word - but that 'he was having trouble finding his voice.' He thinks about how patient Bobby had been with him whenever he'd go quiet. He'd definitely found parenting books on the subject more than once when he'd gone snooping around the library. It takes a minute for him to be able to swallow.

Then he shrugs, "It's something I've been meaning to get around to telling you, for a while now. But ..." Dean drifts off, suddenly embarrassed about his lack of words for excusing his lack of words. He doesn't bite his lip - doesn't want to keep the words in right now - so he wets them instead. The words still don't come.

Cas reaches out and puts his hand over Dean's and nods, shrugging as he says, "Sometimes, it's hard to talk." Like he's not just completing Dean's sentence, but that he's agreeing with the sentiment, and he gets it.

Dean sighs, and shifts his own hand enough to squeeze Cas's briefly. He looks down at the Formica tabletop, then stands and turns to go wash his dish in the sink.

"'Night, Cas," he says, patting his friend's shoulder on the way out of the room.

"Goodnight, Dean."

The morning is hard for Dean. He blinks awake and takes a deep breath, then closes his eyes again. These are the days he's afraid of. Where he wakes up and knows he won't be able to speak, and knows it's because he had trouble with his words the day before. Because that's where there's the potential for an infinite cycle to start. He's gone more than a month without talking before, but that was its own thing. He's never had one of these feedback loops last more than a week and a half.

He lies in bed for a few minutes and enjoys the fact that they'd wrapped up another case yesterday. That maybe they won't have to go anywhere for a while. He tries not to think about the fact that they probably won't be able to do more than salt and burns or nest/pack eradications until he gets his voice back. But he's had a lifetime of practice and that technique has yet to work.

Sam's in the kitchen cleaning out his water bottle after his run when Dean wanders out.

"Mornin'," he calls out.

Dean gives a little salute and goes to get some of that weird organic cereal Sam keeps bringing home. It honestly looks like a pile of forest detrius had a baby with Frosted Flakes, but it tastes like cinnamon and the texture's great and Dean is kind of trying to care about himself a little.

"You're not cooking today?" Sam asks, over his shoulder. It's become a thing for him to cook breakfast pretty much whenever they aren't on a hunt. He fucking loves their kitchen. But he's not really in the mood this morning.

Dean stands at the counter to pour his cereal into a bowl, keeping his brother in his periphery. When Sam glances over his shoulder at him, Dean shakes his head and shrugs but doesn't look away from the cascading flakes. (Maybe, sometimes Dean tries to imitate commercials when he's preparing his breakfast).

He feels Sam's gaze become analytical but he doesn't hunch his shoulders or shift nervously because it's fine. Sam can look and just know. He's gotten good at it over the years and Dean's pretty fond of how good they are at reading one another. This is just part of that.

"Okay," Sam says like he does (like it's actually okay), and goes back to cleaning his bottle and putting it in the dish rack to dry. Dean gets the milk from the fridge and takes his bowl over to the kitchen table to sit and eat. He's glad about telling Cas last night, and wonders if he should've told Mary; but he doesn't feel worried (won't think about being worried), it'll work out somehow.

He considers how his day is looking. Maybe he'll get back to organizing the objects in the archives. He slurps up the last of his cereal milk as he stands to rinse his bowl in the sink.

Writing isn't his favorite option on days like this; if he can communicate non-verbally, he will. But before he leaves the kitchen, he puts a little notepad and a worn down pencil in his pocket. Just in case.

Downtime at the Bunker is nice. He likes having such a big library, and the projector room is awesome for Netflix when he craves that big-screen feel. He and Sam are working on organizing and trying to understand the Men of Letters' archives, and on days where he feels restless or useless he goes and works on that to give himself something productive to do.

But sometimes he has to ask questions, or check himself with Sam to remember where they ended up putting things. And it involves a lot of reading. So, it's not exactly the best option, because when he's not talking, it feels like his dyslexia is harder to deal with, too. Whether it's his awareness of perceived shortcomings, or the fact that he doesn't feel like he can mouth or sound out the difficult words he comes across, reading is always a bigger-than-normal struggle when he needs to be quiet.

Which kind of sucks. Because Dean always feels like his own inclination towards silence would be a great opportunity to catch up on reading. He's always unsure of how to channel that sort of quiet, focused energy. It's times like these that he wishes he'd kept up on his sketching. Maybe he should try getting back into art some time ...

A few years back, Sam started buying him audio books and they've basically been the best thing ever. Being quiet while wearing headphones feels normal - it's expected that no one would talk to him then. He can put them on and isolate himself in the middle of a room full of people that he loves, or sit by himself with his eyes closed and head tilted back and be completely transported. He's pretty sure it's called 'escapism' and he likes the way the word sounds.

Dean knows that when he's quiet, the whole house seems quiet. It isn't something that bothers him, he's just acutely aware of it. Conversation seems to diminish exponentially. There's only the four of them in the whole place, and while no one minds a little peace, it's most common for them to congregate in one of the shared spaces, even if they're tucked into separate corners.

By the time mid-morning comes around, they've all made their way into the big library. Sam's doing something on his tablet and Cas is ... somewhere. Probably leaving sticky notes in books that have misinformation. Dean glances over at where Mary is fiddling around on someone's laptop. He's glad Sam got to her first and had a chance to explain things - which, it's obvious that he has. She hasn't said anything to him beyond a bright "hey, baby," as she sat down at the big table. Dean had smiled back at her and gone about putting his headphones on, the both of them leaving it at that. Which is unusual for her at least. Mary has no qualms about interrupting Dean even if he looks busy. He thinks maybe it was the vehement, open-ended invitation he kept repeating about letting him know if she needed anything. Dean genuinely doesn't mind. It's just a quirk to add to his schema of what a mom is and should be.

In any case, she's letting him alone for the time being. He's fine with it, really. But every time there's a lull in his story, he finds himself absently glancing over at her. Because part of him is really freaking out. She's become so quickly, relevantly important to him after being abstractly so for his entire life, and he has no idea how she's going to react to him being this way. Will she say something later today? Is she going to wait until it blows over? Does she want to pretend it isn't even happening?

"Hey, Dean," Sam says, eyes locked on his tabled screen but wearing a sly smile. He gives a loose wave of his hand to get Dean's attention in case his volume is too loud for him to hear. Dean slides his headphones down around his neck and gets up off the leather chair. He cranes his neck to get a look at the tablet screen as he crosses over to his brother. It's just a stupid video but he watches it and it makes him smile wide - wide enough that he feels the corners of his eyes crinkle. He claps Sam on the shoulder as he stands upright from where he'd been hunching over the screen.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Sam says as he leans back in his chair and closes the window, going back to whatever else he'd been doing.

Before Dean turns around, though, he catches the curve of a smile in the corner of Mary's mouth, and he falters a little at the thought that it's probably his interaction with Sam that caused it. Maybe seeing Sam treat him normally will make it feel normal for her. Just, a new part of their lives that she's being introduced to.

On the whole, that first day is pretty uneventful. They all end up grazing throughout the day so that no one's really hungry for a full meal. Dean does end up cooking a casserole and putting away the leftovers for lunch tomorrow. He goes to bed with the thought that despite his concerns, he never actually felt ignored.

He's at the kitchen table the next morning when Cas comes and sits down across from him.

"So, Sam told me that you like listening to audiobooks."

Dean appreciates that there isn't a conditional or preposition attached to the statement. He nods.

"I was wondering if you'd ever tried listening to podcasts."

He's sure that Claire, or Krissy (or maybe both ...) has mentioned them before, and he kind of knows that they're like digitally recorded radio shows that you find online, but he's never sat down and listened to one before. He shakes his head and then shrugs.

"I can pull up a few for you to try out," he says. The thought of having to sort through a list or links is not appealing. But Cas knows his taste and having him whittle down the world of possibility sounds really nice. Dean nods.

"Can I see your phone?" Cas holds out both hands across the table, like he's promising to be careful with Dean's property. Dean slides it towards him and puts another bite of casserole into his own mouth.

"Sam says you keep relistening to the Iliad," Cas says, staring at the screen. Dean staves off a blush - yeah, sure, he's a nerd, and maybe it's boring of him, but it's a good story and he has yet to find a better format for enjoying it. "And I know how much of a buff you've always been about lore. So I think you might like this one called 'Myths and Legends.'" He turns the screen to show Dean a grey logo with the name and the small outline of a castle on it. "You'll probably already know the majority of the stories, and you might even have corrections for some of them, but I know you love mythology, and this covers folklore, too."

Dean nods and puts on an expression that he hopes Cas can understand is meant to be encouragement. Cas makes eye contact with him and he holds it for a few moments, even as his fingers go back to manipulating the screen. When he looks down at it, he smiles and seems to scroll down a long list.

"This show's good," he says, voice low and full of self-assurance. "Weird, and a little dark, but a fun kind of strange. It's not for everyone, but it gets consistently ranked number one on several download formats. And I wouldn't show it to you if I didn't think you'd like it." He shows Dean the episode list before pulling up the bottom-most one. "I like the happy endings," he says shyly. Dean looks up at him and admires his friend's soft smile. "The music, too. It has a lot of variety."

Dean nods and looks back down at the purple logo off to the side of the screen. He trusts Cas's opinion about what his own opinion will be. And he likes happy endings, too.

Cas draws the phone back towards himself. "You should start out with this one, though," he says, pulling up another tab. "It's just ten episodes, they're each a half hour long. But it's a complete story ... mostly. I think it'll be easy for you to get into and enjoy." He turns the phone back around and shows Dean a screen similar to the last one, but with a much shorter episode list, and a yellow icon containing a stylized dragonfly.

"It might be my favorite," Cas adds, quietly.

Dean looks up to acknowledge that he heard him. 'Thank you,' he signs, touching his chin and moving his hand in an outward arc. He's picked up a few phrases over the years, and Dean feels that this moment is deserving of more than a nod and a smile.

Cas's lips part as his own smile grows the tiniest bit, 'You're welcome,' he signs back, hand touching his brow then sweeping downward in a curve towards his chin.

He stands up and plants a kiss on top of Dean's head before he starts making himself tea. Dean taps the screen to keep it awake and pulls his headphones out of his pocket. He plugs them in and presses play before laying his phone aside and batting his headphone cord out of the way. He goes back to eating his leftover casserole as the intro rolls. From the corner of his eye, Dean notices Cas pick his book up off the counter where he'd left it earlier. He sits down across from Dean, taking a sip from his mug, already absorbed in his story, just as the podcast makes the sound of a cassette tape clicking. Music plays and then a woman's voice comes through; "Welcome to the Relaxation Study ..."

Much later, when Dean goes to bed, he finds that Cas has elected to join him tonight and is already doing his version of ... sleeping? meditating? ... whatever. Dean changes slowly into his pajamas then turns off the light on Cas's side of the bed before crawling in on his own side and curling up behind his boyfriend. Dean loves this sort of closeness; the two of them being fitted together like two sloppily drawn quotation marks. He wraps his arm snugly over Cas's waist and buries his face at the nape of Cas's neck before falling into dreams of punctuation that morphs into dragonfly wings.

Dean likes getting up early. Sometimes he sees Sam off before his morning run. Other times, he drags a lawn chair just outside the front door and watches the sunrise while he drinks his first cup of coffee. Now that Mary's living with them, there's the added incentive of starting his day with her - of starting their days together. She's an early riser, too, and doesn't mind keeping him company on mornings that he cooks.

Cooking is normal. Dean likes to cook and it doesn't inherently involve talking. Sometimes it involves singing. But that's not a requirement. So it's a way he feels normal and can do something he likes in silence. Over the years he's that external normality is something that's pretty important to him.

Today is the third morning he's woken up and known he wouldn't be speaking. Today, Dean is making breakfast muffins.

In fact, he's considering whether or not monkeybread muffins will be worth the effort when Mary shuffles into the kitchen. Sleepy and beautiful, her face is scrunched up into a yawn, and Dean fails to not be caught off guard by how comforting it is to have her here. How many times he would have killed to see her alive, safe, and cozy like this, with her baby pink, terrycloth robe hanging loose over her rumpled pajamas.

"Morning, sweetheart," she says quietly, a sigh at the tail end of her yawn.

Dean smiles at her and wishes that the chocolate chip-banana muffins were done already so that he could offer her one.

She takes a deep breath and hums. "Smells good," she says, settling into a seat and tucking her robe close around herself.

Dean gestures at the bananas he hadn't used and the empty bag of chocolate chip morsels. She nods and leans back, settling into her chair. Her eyes drift closed and Dean turns back to the counter. He looks over the materials he has left and decides that monkeybread isn't worth the trouble, and defaults to blueberry, because Cas and Sam pack those away like eating them is a competition. He can feel Mary watching him as he makes up the batter, but it takes some time before she speaks up.

"I miss talking with you," she says. Dean looks over his shoulder at her. He feels like his throat is full but holds back on the urge to swallow or lower his eyes. Mary looks up from her hands, "Do- Would you mind if I talked to you? I think ... it might be easier for me. About some things."

Dean slowly goes back to finishing the batter, and he shakes his head 'yes.'

"So, yes? I can?"

Dean nods again and turns back to the bowl and the spatula. There's a creak and from the corner of his eye, Dean can see Mary leaning back in her chair like the hard part is already over.

"I ... I was thinking the other day," she starts, careful but not hesitant, "about being trapped at home. As a teen. Knowing that I wasn't the kind of person to leave my family without a secure next step. That beyond the monsters, the world was unsafe for me because of conventional stuff like being a girl and not having two pennies to rub together." Dean stops stirring the batter and reaches for the muffin tin. "It really got to me - that I didn't have options and it was only because of things beyond my control. I'd sit in my room or the shower just quietly freaking out for hours."

This is the kind of conversation that has a purpose, Dean thinks to himself, as he puts the paper liners in the metal tray. But his hungry ears keep listening.

"I didn't know they were called panic attacks until John came back from 'Nam." She seems to drift off for a moment. "I went through a lot of medical books trying to diagnose and treat his PTSD without going to a professional. I don't think any of it helped, but it gave me words for things I'd been experiencing for years." Dean carefully starts spooning the batter into the cups. He spares Mary a glance and catches her halfway through a shrug. "We all freak out in different ways. Every other conversation I have with Cas seems to be best summed up by saying 'humans are weird.'"

There's a long enough pause that Dean can almost feel her thought process shifting. He finishes scooping the batter and puts down his utensils. He doesn't hesitate before wiping his hands off and taking a seat across from her. She lets him settle before speaking.

"Sometimes ... sometimes I want to ask you, and Sam, if you've ever tried to live as anything other than hunters. You've both hinted at it a little, and obviously it hasn't worked out. And I feel guilty for feeling curious." He might feel helpless and used as a venting tool if her eyes weren't locked on him, watchful and cautious. Like she's not blindly spilling her guts, but looking for reaction and reciprocation from him. Like she wants to know what he's thinking and feeling as she's saying all of this, or hungry for any sort of response at all.

"But mostly, I feel like it's my fault you can't have the life you want. I know, logically, it's John's fault for raising you the way he did, but there's still an emotional responsibility. And I'm worried ..." she holds her breath and her tongue, but breaks off with a sigh, "I don't know. I don't know what I'm trying to say or what I want from you right now, or for you in general. I just ..."

Dean digs into his pocket and pulls out his spiral notebook and pencil. "I'm happy," he writes on his little pad, and hands it to her. She reads it and looks up at him, but he takes it back and adds, "Sam's happy too."

The beep of the timer interrupts them. Dean startles, then, with an apologetic look, slowly pushes his chair back and gets up. He stops the beeping and puts on the oven mitts to pull the first batch out. The back of his neck prickles and he knows Mary is staring at him. He turns to look at her as he shucks the oven mitts.

"Can I hug you?" she asks.

Dean's already holding out his arms and rounding the table as he nods his 'yes.' They collide in their rushed efforts to reassure, and Dean doesn't know how, but she manages to bundle him up with only her two arms over his shoulders. He just takes a deep breath and sighs, keeping his eyes closed and holding her tight, glad that she's letting him press his cheek to the top of her head and that she's automatically willing to hold him in a way that makes him feel small and cared for.

Mary seems to have just as little appreciation for heartfelt conversations as Dean does, and she seems to like trying to solve a lot of problems with hugs. Which is fine. Dean likes hugging her.

A few still moments, and their contact dissolves hesitantatly, like they both aren't sure if the other is ready to let go.

Dean steps back and turns around, puts the last batch in the oven before selecting two of the piping hot, chocolate chip banana muffins and bringing them back to the table. Mary, seated again, gladly takes it from him and barely takes time to pull back the wrapper before she digs in.

Hesitantly, Dean pulls a notepad from the pocket of his robe. He takes the pencil from the spiral binding.

Sam's always been good about it, he writes. He was a really understanding kid. Came with the smarts, I think. He probably didn't know why I wasn't talking but he didn't act like something was wrong with me. That was kinda all that mattered. He hands it to Mary.

She looks it over. Swallows her bite and licks the crumbs from her lips. Inhales.

"You two seem so well adjusted to each other," she looks up to meet his eyes, "It's kind of amazing."

Dean doesn't duck his head, but he reaches back out for the paper.

Bobby always thought I'd grow out of it. And for the most part, I did.

She reads it over his shoulder and looks up at him when he's done. He shrugs as if to say, 'But here we are'.

Mary swallows another bite, "Sometimes there's nothing to grow out of. Sometimes parts of you just keep growing like everything else about you does."

Dean's okay with her putting it like that. He folds the cover back over the page and drops it and the pen into his pocket. Mary nudges his muffin towards him. He picks off a piece and pops it into his mouth.

And that's how Cas finds them. "Good morning," he says, voice rougher than usual from sleep. Mary and Dean greet him with smiles as he crosses the kitchen, eyes . Dean writes something on his notepad and shows it to his mother. She laughs and he smiles brightly before tucking his notepad away and pushing his chair back to stand up. He moves to the counter and begins to clean up after himself. Arms full of trash, Dean leans in to press a kiss to Cas's cheek as he unwraps a muffin, then plucks the paper from Cas's hands. Cas moves to get a plate from the cabinet, then takes the seat beside Dean's.

The coffee finishing times perfectly with Sam's arrival into the kitchen. Dean smiles over his shoulder at him as he yawns and stretches in the doorway.

Sam sighs and smiles back, "What's for breakfast?"

#mute!dean #established destiel #comfort #Dean and Mary #dean needs a hug #family bonding #bunker life #my fics #femcas writes

26 notes · View notes

jmilojevich-blog · 5 years

Text

Blog 6: Interpersonal Communciation

You can be walking down the street or talking with friends and non-verbal communication is being expressed. They are essential to everyday communication. Whether or not we’re aware of the fact, how we look sends messages to others. Normally, on a daily basis I dress in comfortable clothing. It can vary from hoodies, to sweatpants or workout gear. Don’t get me wrong there are times, when I like to get dressed up, if there is a presentation or just want to look nice for the day. However, nine times out of ten, I will dress relaxed. Well about a month into classes, I had made a couple of friends in the class. One of the girls Marie, came up to me and said “Hey, if everything okay? I just noticed that you have been dressing in baggy clothes and just seems like you are down.” In the moment, the temper side of me wanted to come out and then feel self-conscious. Before I could answer, the class started. I called my boyfriend immediately and told him what happened. After calming down, I realized that I probably took it the wrong way and should talk to her about it. The next class, I talked to Marie and told her what she said made me irritated and vulnerable. I dress like this most of the time because it is comfortable. Also, in high school I was always the girl that got dolled up and had to be this certain image. Marie said that she didn’t mean any harm and would never intentionally hurt my feelings. Her sister is going through depression and noticed similar signs in the clothing and just wanted to check up on me. She said that “Jess, I don’t care how you dress, it’s your body. The signals that you are giving with your clothing just made me think of my sister.” I never realized how much a person could give off based on clothing. Then, I double realized that I was being naïve. In high school, you see the goth kids that wear dark black and heavy make-up, or you see people dressing a certain way for a job that they have, like a lawyer. Another example of how someone looks is through make-up. I cannot count the number of times, the reactions I get, depending on if I wear make-up or not for the day. If I wear make-up, I receive complements and looks from different guys. The best one was “Don’t you have a pretty face, let’s see how it looks at my apartment” (Which if they are genuine that is different), However most of the guys like that, I just want to walk away. When I don’t wear make-up, I’ve gotten anywhere from “Are you sick?” to “Are you okay?” I can never understand why that comes out of people’s mouths. I tell my friends that if I am not wearing make-up, it is because I just don’t want to or maybe I am letting my face breathe. Physical attractiveness can also lead in the professional world. I had the privilege of sitting in on an interview at my old warehouse. We interviewed a total of 10 applicants that ranged from 20- 35 years of age. My boss was male at the time and I noticed non-verbal cues that he was projecting as well, along with the applicants. Automatically, if the female was attractive, he changed his questions to the “easier” kind. The interview changed into a lighter atmosphere and it seemed like it was two friends just talking. My boss was smiling more and would lean forward insinuating that he is relaxed and enjoying the interview. The tone of his voice would be softer too. If the applicant was female but less attractive. The voice stayed sharpened a tad, but the questions were more difficult. Also, it seemed “stiff”, and he turned back into the boss figure, a more intimidating figure. On the opposite side, if there was a male applicant, he always had a “stern” voice, to ensure his masculinity and wanted to test the applicant. I ended up calling him out on it, for one, I was leaving to a different store and two we had that type of friendship relationship. I expressed to him what he was doing, and he was denying it. I told him to look at his notes and pointed out that the attractive females, he gave a higher regard even if they were not as strong or had the skills to fulfill the job requirements. He stated “I didn’t even realize I was doing that” I told him the next one, let me read the questions and for him to write down the responses. The next applicant, we had a girl she was 30 and absolutely stunning. I asked more of the critical thinking questions and as he was writing her responses, I would see his face expressions, they looked concerning. The applicant didn’t even notice because she was so focused on me. After she left, I had him re-read her responses and he was like “Wow, yeah I understand now.” It wasn’t that he was a bad boss, in fact he was highly respected. I told him to maybe not focus on looks and explained to him my story. There are times as I stated that I liked to get dressed up and express myself. However, you should never judge a person because they aren’t what you prefer in looks.

Culture can play a huge factor into Nonverbal communication. There was an incident that happened at my current job with my manager. Every time we would discuss something at work, he would never look me in the eye. At first, I thought, well maybe he is having a bad day and I shouldn’t judge or think much of it. Then, it kept happening. I discussed it with my supervisor and expressed that I thought it was rude and inconsiderate. My supervisor suggested that maybe I should try talking to him one more time, but this time have a coworker with me and see if the same outcome occurs. So, I grabbed my friend, Jon. He had started with me in orientation, so I thought it would be perfect. Plus, we needed to talk to my manager about forklift training. I initiated the conversation and my manager made eye contact with Jon but not me. I was thinking in my head; you have got to be kidding me. I felt really low and wanted some answers. I ended up grabbing my supervisor and asked my manager if we could have a meeting. I explained to him what I noticed and that it was upsetting, especially since he can look at Jon but for some reason not myself. My manager explained that it comes with his culture. In Mexico, a man should not look a woman in the eye, it is a sign of disrespect for his family. Then he explained that he meant no harm, it is just how he was raised. Apparently, there have been others that have addressed this issue before. He explained that he is trying to work on it, but that there will be times that it just apart of who he is. I decided not to take offense. How can I be mad at someone, if that is how they were raised/taught? That is like people not from the states telling me to change something that I have been accustomed to. It solidified that everyone comes from different backgrounds, like people from Italy. Someone might think that they are always in a screaming match, but they just have loud voices and use their hands a lot. I mean I know I do all the time, using my hands helps with nonverbal cues and with directions especially. I think more people should be aware of the different non-verbal cues that they might give off and realize it is unique to each person.

0 notes